


Lovers And Letters

by Britpacker



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode S01 E01 "Friends and Enemies", F/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis wants his letters back. The Cardinal has a reward for the agent who retrieved them. Unlike certain other people, Milady de Winter knows better than to presume on her patron’s good nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Richelieu

**Author's Note:**

> Set a few weeks after the events of the first episode. I may be taking a few historical liberties but I'm hardly alone: Alexandra Dowling as Anne is much prettier than the average Habsburg after all!

Two weeks. Long enough, I think, for Louis to ponder the error of his ways. As he moves from the dais I step forward and he checks himself instantaneously. “Your Majesty, a moment?”

“Of course, Your Eminence.”

Frightened. Ever since he confessed the existence of his _fraternal correspondence_ to me, Louis has cringed like a snivelling seminary brat under my lightest word. Even now, with his precious Musketeers exonerated – at the expense of my own bungling fools, to make matters worse – he dares not strut or crow. Ignoring the chatterers and the flatterers he ushers me from the overcrowded Audience Chamber with its stuffiness and the stifling stench of too many bodies to a small ante-room, warmed by a fire against the evening’s chill. Only the Queen is bold enough to follow.

Just this once, I won’t protest. The documents crackle comfortingly inside my jerkin. Better protection than a whole garrison of guards, those few sheets of grimy paper! In his relief to have them returned, Louis will give me anything I desire.

Perhaps I really should advise him to disband that infernal regiment this time!

“Armand.” So composed, respectfully regal in the sight of the court; such a weakling cur when we’re alone. He grasps my hands, his lips pressed together against the wail even he understands is beneath the dignity of his crown. “Have you any news – those letters, would to God I’d never set my seal to them! Should they fall into the wrong hands...”

“No one could think ill of a king seeking peace with his brother, Sire.”

“No Frenchman could admire a sovereign who sells himself into Spanish slavery, Madame.” 

“Philip wants nothing of France but her friendship!”

“Your Majesty.” Tempting though it is to see the Habsburg agent work herself ever deeper into disfavour, I must still pray for a legitimate heir to Louis’ throne one day. “I believe these will be familiar to you?”

“Armand, what ever would I do without you?” Toss his crown at some paltry fool in a fit of temper most likely, but while he clutches the grubby pages to his chest and all but sobs his gratitude and relief I can refrain from saying so. “But where – how...”

“My agents are more thorough than Captain Treville’s, Sire.” Madame Anne flinches from the criticism but she dare not pipe up in her favourites’ defence – not this time, my hand’s too strong, and she’s shrewd enough to choose her battles. Were Louis half the man his father was...

My influence would not be a tenth as strong. Henri IV was not the man to be governed by his bishops.

Fortunate for me the son’s not one to be ruled by his women!

I’ll acknowledge her persistence, though: she seems impervious to his every rebuff. “This is wonderful news! If a courier leaves in the morning, my brother will have your answers within the week!”

No words of mine are needed. Louis’ thin face darkens. “You don’t still think I’ll sell the interests of France for a sack of Philip’s doubloons?”

“But you agreed his proposals are perfectly honourable!”

“To Spain, perhaps.” When she cries out again, he acts, goaded into decision. I thought she understood him better this!

A moment; a flick of the hand; and those infernal papers are writhing in the hearth, tongues of flame licking the royal signature. 

It’s all I can do not to sigh with relief. “You should remember your place, Madame,” he says, icy. “As Queen of France your loyalty is to your husband’s kingdom, not your brother’s.”

“Was my marriage not meant to form a bond between the two, Sire?”

Two squabbling children playing at government while France crumbles. They tire me with their inanity, but I must encourage it; anything to keep her pernicious Habsburg influence restrained! She is cleverer than he; more determined; more ambitious. He resents all those things, so long as there’s a stronger will to remind him he should.

“Perhaps if you’d done a queen’s duty and borne an heir, you might show more concern for France’s interests!” he flashes. For a moment I could almost feel sorry for her.

The unmistakable jaw of her inbred family wobbles unappealingly. “If Your Majesty would have a son, the remedy is in his own hands. I beg Your Eminence’s pardon; these things should not be spoken of before a man of your calling.”

“Her Majesty’s point is just, Sire.” When he pouts, I wonder if our sovereign lord is really of an age to beget a child. Others have crueller doubts. “As, Madame, is the King’s.”

She tries to object; protests that her heart became completely French the moment her hand was placed in his, but what princess ever abandoned her own so easily? “Your Majesty’s household is filled with Spaniards,” I point out. “Barely a Frenchwoman is deemed worthy of attending you. Naturally, there are suspicions…”

“Which Your Eminence does nothing to dispel!” 

Louis scowls. There are times I almost expect him to stamp his foot. “Madame, you will address the Cardinal with due respect! It’s hardly his fault one has to run the gauntlet of your scowling Castilian duennas to get near your apartments!”

“Your Majesty assured my brother I should keep my companions!”

“You see how much I’ve already tolerated from Spanish presumption! Armand – advise me! My _affectionate brother_ Philip will expect a reply to his _gracious proposals_. Help me!”

“I am at Your Majesty’s service.” His relieved exhale skims my cheek as I bow. 

“Perhaps we could request the return to Madrid of half those great black crows that bar my way to my wife’s bed,” he says, cheerful now the burden of thinking for himself is lifted from his shoulders, and ready at a moment’s notice to prick the Queen’s pride. “Perhaps with them gone it might _almost_ become a pleasure for me to attend my lady’s bed!”

When she flees, her hands at her mouth, he laughs. “If Philip wants my undying adherence he could always take his sister back,” he grumbles, only to retreat under my reproving stare. “It’s all right, Armand, I’m not about to provoke a war by repudiating the wretch, but humour me! My life would be so much less difficult without Madame the Queen!”

His life? Imagine mine without that inbred intriguer simpering into his ear about the good intentions and high ideals of her innumerable relations! My head aches fiercely; it seems I’m never free from pain these days.

 _Adele’s revenge_. The thought flashes through my mind too fast to be repressed. “Perhaps we should leave the question of Her Majesty’s household for another time, Sire,” I say, and only Louis would be so self-absorbed as to miss the tiredness that scrapes through the words.

This can’t be delayed. If it were, some bluff well-meaning fool like Treville would steer us into another humiliation; the King heeds the last voice he hears. What hope would there be for a France ruled solely by this mindless pup?

Unthinkable!

He writes to my instruction, inking his fingers as much as the page in his eagerness to please, so intent on his task that I can let my shoulders slump and my heavy head droop. 

My position has never been more secure, his dependence on my advice more total. Is that not what I wanted?

At this moment, with the weight of France on my shoulders and no respite to be found, I wonder!


	2. Milady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't wait for many people, but he's always been an exceptional man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m assuming a woman of Milady’s intelligence would figure out exactly why she was being paid well to find the owner of that pistol. She’d also have a fairly good idea of how the Cardinal might react to betrayal.

He’s late.  


My heart contracts at the realisation. The King’s stupidity ensures his pre-eminence but exposure to it leaves him exhausted; impatient; short-tempered. An irritable Cardinal is not a comfortable creature to encounter, above all when bearing bad news.  


Especially given his recent…loss.

That stupid, simpering strumpet! Tumbling with some loud, lusty Musketeer, delighting no doubt in her _cleverness_ at deceiving the most powerful man in France! Did she believe her little intrigue could escape him forever?

If he’d not shown the stomach for the deed himself, I’d gladly have despatched the matter in his name. I know he takes no pleasure in murder.

He seems to know, I am different.

His private chapel is cold; as chilly as the man himself as he strides through the shadows, his jet black cloak swirling in his wake. As I always do – as is expected of me – I sink into a half curtsy, ready to kiss the gem that gleams against his long, slender finger. When the door slams behind him, concealing us from prying eyes, I rise again. The pretence is needless. He knows my soul was sold long ago.

“I apologise for keeping you waiting, Milady.”

“I am at Your Eminence’s service.”

His nostrils flare; whether in amusement or exasperation I can’t tell, this damned infernal candlelight and incense swirls around us so. “His Majesty would have my agent rewarded for the recovery of his letters,” he drawls, producing a small pouch that clinks enticingly. “It seems you’re in the pay of every powerful man in the kingdom.”

“My loyalties were given to one master long ago.” 

His eyes, cold and grey as a stormy sea, narrow. Does he trust me? I doubt it! 

Still, I can show my worth, and with the elaborately sealed packet hidden within my dark red cloak I do. “I took the liberty of despatching Mendoza’s last letter to Madrid in his name,” I say, deliberately businesslike. He arches a steely brow.

“And received Philip’s reply on his behalf, I see.”

The smallest inclination of the head brings a few dark strands forward, brushing like a lover’s caress against my cheek. “They’ll have learned of his death too late to retrieve it.”

His smile is as cold as the air around us; unlike that air, it makes me shiver within the heavy folds of my cape. The trollop deserved all she got for betraying this man!

Danger attracts me. There’s no man in France more dangerous than Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal de Richelieu. No man more charismatic or compelling.

I can admire my fill while he scans King Philip’s letter, thin lips pursed, piercing eyes intent. He looks tired, even in the shadows; he holds himself stiffly, as if every muscle aches. Yet still he retains that aura of absolute, terrible control.

How I’d love to see him break beneath my hands!

He knows I’ve read it first; there’s the smallest blotch on the wax seal that betrays my hand, and while Mendoza might have missed such a small thing, he will not. “You did well to kill that bumbling oaf,” he says without raising his eyes. “Although the Queen will be distressed.”

“A small bonus, then.”

I’m sure my winter smile is a match for his. “Particularly when the King sees what his _good brother_ really thinks,” he concludes. “You’ll be well rewarded for this, Milady. Any pact between France and Spain will be as dead as Senor Mendoza himself.”

“And about as attractive.” I can’t repress a shudder. It’s not my skill with a weapon he purchases so dearly; it’s the strength of my stomach that will allow even that repellent Spanish slug into my bed for his advantage.

He laughs. Fortunate for my sanity he does it so rarely!

“So killing him gave you extra pleasure, did it?”

“Far more than he gave elsewhere, my lord.”

Many a country priest would flee in fright from the implication. The greatest in the land merely lifts an eyebrow. “Your sacrifice is appreciated,” he purrs, sweeping a look from head to toe that makes me shiver in a much more pleasurable way. “With evidence like this, even the King must reach a decision.”

“His Majesty still hasn’t made up his mind toward Spain?”

The question is impertinent, but he’s too drained to object. “His Majesty and his mind are barely acquainted,” he says, the frustration I’ve sensed before leaking through into the dismissive words. “But this will, I think, persuade him to listen to wiser counsel than his wife’s. Her compliments being conveyed through Philip to his agent… she’s more of a fool than I believed!”

“Was her mother her father’s cousin or his niece, I can’t remember.” Congenital idiocy’s as certain a result as the Habsburg facial features of that family’s eternal inbreeding; we should most likely be grateful for it.

My patron chuckles again, a rich, smoky sound that seems to wind in swirls like snakes of incense around me. Absently he rubs his forehead, his eyes drifting closed at the small pressure against his temples. I know the signs. I’ve suffered headaches of that kind myself in times of exceptional stress.

“The latter, I believe,” he says ruefully. I wonder if he ever knows a tranquil moment and again I curse the unthinking slut - Beset, was that her name? – who added the most personal of betrayals to his burden. I suppose he must have cared for her, in his own way.

No surprise: even the most intelligent man can be a fool where a buxom girl’s concerned. No matter what sacred vows he’s breaking in the process.

Some would be scandalised. I’m intrigued. And - as we whisper together in the silent seclusion of his chapel, with images of the Virgin and the saints all around – more than a little aroused.

He is not some dry, desiccated husk but a passionate, carnal man beneath those crimson robes he wears so well when duty demands. If it were otherwise, would I serve him so willingly?

He tucks my trophy inside his cloak, dipping that lofty grey head in dismissal. “Had I known what riches you were bringing, Milady, I would have come with a better reward,” he says wryly. In jest – he understands my nature too well to believe the homage devout – I bend the knee and lay my pursed lips against his ring.

“Pleasing Your Eminence is reward of itself,” I parrot, the words he must hear so often, from so many of his creatures. A part of me means it; this man makes use of me, but he does so honestly and he rewards loyalty as completely as he punishes betrayal. If all men were as straightforward, would my immortal soul have become so spotted with sin?

He raises me with surprising gentleness, a contrast with the steel that slices through his next words. “You’re paid well for your valuable service.” 

Some would think it a statement of fact. I know it’s a warning and I bend my knee again in acknowledgment. “An honest bargain. Only a fool would ask for more.”

His right eyebrow quirks; the smallest of gestures, so much more eloquent than any sonnet. “The voice of experience?” he suggests. I’m not such a sentimental idiot as to hear sympathy in the quiet words, but perhaps there’s a hint of understanding?

I incline my head, thankful for the low light that hides my blush. Embarrassment at my own weakness, or his perception? “Some lessons are best learned young,” he murmurs.

My heart – granite for much of my life - contracts a little. He’s no sadist; I imagine her end was swift. Me? I would have made the brainless harlot suffer until death became a blessed relief!

I surprise myself. Am I burning with anger on his behalf? Feeling – sharing – another’s pain? He is my patron; I give my loyalty with my skills. How can he have become more?

“Only if one has the wit to learn from them, my lord.”

When did he move so much closer, his neck bent so his breath caresses my cheek as he speaks again? “Your wits I never doubt.”

“My loyalty?” I challenge. 

His lips twist, giving his expression a contemptuous cast. “Never ask a question unless you want the answer.”

I already know. He will trust my loyalty as long as I prove it. And not a moment longer.

I raise my head and meet his cool, assessing stare direct. Even I do it rarely; the power of those grey-green eyes can scorch the soul, and what burns there now is enough to set mine aflame.

Desire. 

I can feel it surging through my veins, a match for the hunger that radiates from him. All these years I’ve served him this has been there, like a spring morning mist at the back of my mind; something to be ignored because it could never be quite forgotten.

Power. Danger. All the things that arouse me most are concentrated in this man, my master. One word from him; one look. That’s all I have waited for, and now, it seems, I have it.

“Milady.” 

Once more I bend the knee to him but now my lips brush soft pale skin, not the hard glint of metal and gem. This time he raises me, chivalrous as any simpering gentleman of the court. Retains my hand in his, the long fingers curled around my wrist. “I am Your Eminence’s servant,” I hear myself breathe, though where the words come from I’ll never know. My throat feels too tight for speech, yet still they break through.

“Remember that,” he murmurs. Then his pursed lips descend on mine and everything beyond their softness, the rasp of his beard against my skin, disappears.

My mouth opens willingly to his tongue’s light probing, and oh how right I was: this man knows a woman’s body as well as he does his Gospels, his hands sliding over my curves with a practised ease that makes me shiver, my sigh sliding between our tangling tongues. I cling to him like a drowning woman to a raft, silently cursing the layers of fine cloth that come between us. As if he hears me he brings a hand to my throat and gently, deliberately, unclasps my cloak.

Its whispering fall to the floor is a seduction of itself. I reciprocate, sending the ebony garment from his shoulders to pool beside my crimson one, their soft folds caressing. My hands curve around his shoulders. Our eyes meet.

He smiles.

I swear I can still see that smile though his head comes down, my eyes drift closed and I dissolve into his kiss again. I’m aware of movement, of his subtle guidance; of the air against my cheek. The heavy thud of a door closing strikes as a distant echo, though I know it must be nearby. 

My hair. Tendrils come tumbling against my face and I realise his fingers are working through it even while he guides me, sightless but secure, deeper into his personal apartments. I know where we’re going: a man so intent on a woman has only one destination in his mind. Content to enjoy the journey I relax fully in his arms, mapping the lean muscles beneath his severe black clothes. 

Not for him the flamboyance of his sweeping scarlet cardinal’s robes, and I’m thankful. To conceal that lean frame beneath acres of shapeless red cloth would be a sin, and touching as we move confirms all my baser imaginings. When he presses me back to arms’ length I resist. It’s hopeless, of course, but it makes my point. I want to touch this man.

His bedchamber. His richly furnished bed stands beside us; the Virgin and her child look down from the wall. It’s dark and austere, but it suits him. And the bed – large, draped with dark red curtains and a plush velvet cover to match – is irresistibly inviting.

His beard tickles the delicate skin behind my ear, his voice all smoke and honey as he breathes a gentlemanly question. “Milady…. Are you sure?”

The smallest twist of the neck and my mouth rests against his. “Your Eminence. Are you?”

The challenge delights him; a small huff of mirth cascades across my swollen lips before they’re claimed in a kiss once more. If he intends to distract me, he’s succeeding. Almost.

Deft as any lady’s maid he works my gown’s complex fastenings. I can’t match his dexterity: my fingers tremble uncontrollably, as if I’m some terrified virgin, not the cynical, experienced woman who uses her body as a weapon in his cause!

He laughs at my timidity, but it’s not unkind. He’s amused that I, who use my charms with such calculation, should be overcome by touching him; older, so much more careworn, more cynical than those men I dangle in his cause, yet so much more charismatic, the aura of power clinging to him even in the depths of his bed. His touch is assured, his movements here as elsewhere, controlled; graceful. My pleasure rises, surging in harmony with his. Why did we wait so long?

He buries his face against my neck when he comes, his release triggering mine. White light blinds me; heat washes out from my centre while an incoherent sound bursts shrilly from my throat. I’m floating, drifting in bliss. Had I known, I would have seduced him long ago!

Or did he seduce me? Not that it matters either way.

When he rolls to my side, he looks younger. More relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. “The headache has gone?” I ask.

He doesn’t deny it existed. “Thank you, yes.”

Nothing has changed; he is my patron, I his agent. Fail him and I’ll suffer the consequences as surely as she did. The same rules; I just understand them better.

The awareness of danger makes me shiver despite the heat that emanates from his relaxed form beside me. And I, of all women in France, am the least likely be swept off my feet by a member of the King’s Musketeers!


End file.
